It should be so simple, shouldn’t it?
A Theory of Life, and all that comes with it,
The ups and downs that all creatures, great and small,
Dull and wise, pass through on their way to Glory or Demise.
It’s just a blip in the grand scheme, a flash of the beacon,
Leading ever onward, unattainable but somehow within reach.
And I do reach…I stretch my entire being.
At times.
Because we were made for perfection, right?
Carved in the image of the Unimaginable, the Unattainable.
So my heart screams to be unflawed when being unflawed is
expected,
And I sink in…waist, chest, neck…and I scream.
How can a drowning man save anyone?
How can he be the steady surface on which his loved ones can
walk,
When he can’t walk himself?
I can hardly move. But I stretch.
And sometimes, yes sometimes, a hand pulls, and I inhale the
breath of eternity,
And exhale the need for perfection.
And my heart explodes, open and unguarded.
I don’t need to save anyone, that’s already been accomplished,
It was finished; on a hill on a tree.
But why doesn’t it feel finished? The potential, the driving
force pushing to exceed expectations.
To keep climbing and failing, while this Theory of Life presses
onward,
What’s the delay? When will it truly be finished?
My tattered heart mortars the stones, quickly now, quickly
now,
Before another feeling escapes and goes unnoticed,
Unheard below the noise of other’s feelings that go,
Unnoticed, unheard.
The walls make a hole to weep in the wake,
Of Dashboard Confessional and The Perks of Being a
Wallflower,
And a list of painful events that are constantly expected to
be repeated.
And then the wall’s repaired and everything’s kosher.
Everything is fine…except my ankles are below the waters.
And so the Theory of Life goes,
Drown, stretch, inhale, exhale, mortar, weep, plug, repeat.
When will it really be finished?
The answer’s in there somewhere. Probably between exhale and
mortar,
But I can’t seem to drop the trowel.
Impatient for the fulfillment of a promise made eons ago,
That will make that last inhale eternal.
